Tag Archives: history

Wupatki National Monument

It’s high time I invited you to my favorite place in the world (outside of Sint Maarten, of course). If you’ve ever spent a significant amount of time in Arizona, you know that Great State Forty-Eight has a lot to offer in the way of hidden roadside treasures. My absolute favorite is Wupatki National Monument.

A couple of years ago, Ben and I took a road trip from Phoenix to Page, which is north of the Grand Canyon on the border of Utah. Along the way, we stopped at several ancient Native American dwellings. I wrote about Palatki, but we also stopped at Wupatki during that trip. This year, I decided to introduce my sister, Kaylee, to Wupatki.

Wupatki is one of those amazing places that doesn’t get the attention it deserves, which makes it even better, because you don’t have to share it with seven million tourists and busload of field-trippers. In fact, it’s so out-of-the-way that you might drive by it on the highway every weekend and never pay attention to the turnoff signs.

However, once you do make that trip deep into the high desert wilderness, you’ll be amazing to walk through the remains of some of Arizona’s oldest civilizations. The history value is incredible– and the Instagram factor isn’t bad, either!

There are many pueblos in Wupatki, and you can see several of them at five stopping points along the loop that takes you through the monument. My favorite is Wupatki Pueblo, a huge, multi-family complex that includes natural air conditioning (you have to see it to believe it) that comes from a hole in the ground.

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In addition to the big pueblo, you can visit other stops within the monument to walk through houses built over a box canyon, climb inside a medium pueblo with a stunning view, and hike to a hilltop neighborhood.

The best part, to me, is getting out to a place where all you can hear is the sound of the wind over the wilderness, where animals rule the landscape, and where whispers of the past rise like smoke from the crumbling remains of mysterious ancient dwellings.

As an aside, I would encourage you to visit my sister’s blog. She talks about faith and hope in the midst of navigating life as a 23-year-old widow.

Click here for Kaylee’s blog.

Battery Park, New York City

New York City is flashy, trendy, and crowded, but it also has some significant and interesting history. The earliest history is concentrated primarily around the Battery Park area, which is the gateway to the city from Ellis Island and also the site of the city’s earliest fort, Castle Clinton.

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Castle Clinton was built in 1811 as a fortification against the British during the War of 1812. After it was no longer in use militarily, it was given to the city as a garden and arts center in 1823. In 1855, the rise of immigration caused Castle Clinton, perfectly placed at the edge of the bay, to become a depot and immigrant processing center. Eight million new Americans left Castle Clinton and embarked on new lives in this great nation. In 1890, the processing center was moved and the building became the New York City Aquarium. In 1946, the castle was returned to its original design, and in the 70’s, it became Castle Clinton National Monument.

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Besides the monument, Battery Park has a lot of other statues and memorials to see. My family’s favorite was “Cool Globes,” the collection of large painted globes, each painted by a different team of artists to reflect their idea of a solution to the world’s environmental problems. One idea was for everyone to put on layers and avoid blasting heating and wasting energy. The globe was covered by a giant knitted globe sweater. I liked the one with every nation’s flag painted over the shape of the country. Look– they even remembered Burundi!

Pier A Harbor House

There are a lot of great places to eat in New York City, but a few are worth highlighting. One of these is Pier A Harbor House, which is located at Battery Park. We stopped in here on our way to the Ellis Island ferry. It was classically American and very delicious.

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I love me some international food, and New York certainly offers the best of the best from round the world. Sometimes, though, it’s nice to get some mainstream-type American chow. Especially if you haven’t been home to the States in a few months. Pier A Harbor house had all the really good New England stuff, like seafood in a sandwich and the best clam chowder I think I’ve ever had.

couple at Pier A Harbor House

The ambiance was also really nice. It had a distinctive nautical design, with naval code flags and ship decorations hung tastefully on the walls. As you can see from the above photo, my parents were very happy to be there!

If you find yourself in New York City, be sure to head over to Battery Park. You won’t find any neon or Prada, but you’ll find something that draws deep from the roots of American history. American or not, you’ll discover something that belongs to you: a welcome to all nations from the city that was built by hands from around the world.

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Ellis Island: Stories of Our Past and Present

What is more representative of America than New York City? I was going to write that a trip to New York is the quintessential American experience, but the United States of America is too broad and too mulita-faceted for me to make that statement. Still, the diversity within New York is a fantastic sampling of the cultures and subcultures with the U.S. as a whole, and the city’s history and modern status makes it the perfect place for one to begin a journey through the States.

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Appropriately, just as my journey home from the Caribbean begins in New York, my ancestors’ journey from Europe also began here.

Statue of LibertyThe sight of the Statue of Liberty inspires me. It inspires me because it is a timeless representation of what the United States is supposed to be. No matter what political trends rise and fall, Lady Liberty stands at the edge of sea, beaconing the traveler and lighting the way to a place of hope. She inspires me because she is what America is, and the hope that America embodies. This is the first sight of our nations shores that my ancestors saw those many decades ago, and she still stands to welcome the immigrants of today. I hope that we never forget that most of our families came to these shores as immigrants and refugees from other places. I hope we won’t forget that it was once our great-grandparents who arrived, footsore and travel weary, hoping for a better life. Maybe the memory of our own narrative will help us to see the humanity in the great crowds who stand knocking at our gates and give us hearts of compassion.

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Those of us who have ancestors who arrived in the United States before 1954 have likely had at least one family member come through the processing center on Ellis Island. For me, the trip to the Ellis Island Museum was significant because I have many ancestors who came through this location. Although I know only a few names, it was amazing to me to stand in the same places that my first American family members stood. After learning about everything it took for people to make it to America and get through Ellis Island, I am in awe of how brave these men and women were. Today, although processes have changed, the people who have the tenacity and drive to make it here and thrive in an unfamiliar culture still must overcome a lot. I have a lot of respect for people who are brave enough to do that, and I’m thankful for my ancestors who made that leap for their children, grandchildren, and me. ellis island family

Two of my ancestors who traveled from Europe through Ellis Island are my great great great grandpa Nicholas Kocina and his wife,  Anna Kocina. Nicholas was Austrian and Anna was Czech. They arrived in the United States in the late 1800s and lived in Chicago before they settled in a Czech community in Nebraska. I tried to imagine what it must have been like for them to climb these stairs and enter the registry room. Although it was fairly empty when we visited, it was absolutely bursting with people when they arrived. IMG_4033 IMG_4036

Besides the Kocinas, my family arrived in the United States from Germany, Ireland, Norway, and England. Most of them came through Ellis Island,  I assume.

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Even more than the history of Ellis Island, I was very interested in the modern refugee and immigration exhibit. I’m working on a master’s in Refugee Protection and Forced Migration Studies, so I was able to glean a lot of useful information from the museum. The issues of refugee asylum and immigration are hot-button topics in the U.S. right now, and I found that the Ellis Island Museum did an excellent job at presenting an informative and well-balanced look at the aspects. There are so many facets to these issues and it’s valuable to be able to hear a variety of voices on the matters, just as the museum presented.American FLag NYCIf you’re ever in New York City, I’d highly recommend a stop at the Ellis Island Museum. A short ferry ride past the Statue of Liberty will take you there. If you’re short on time, bypassing a tour of the statue and opting for Ellis Island is well worth it. Come discover our nation’s past, our present, and our hope for the future.

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Seeing Myself on the Canvas

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It’s not every day that I get to model for a famous artist. But today was not just another day!

Sir Roland Richardson is called “The Father of Caribbean Impressionism.” He’s one of Saint Martin’s foremost citizens, and has made significant contributions in the art, history, and literary aspects of the island. Internationally, he is best known for his vibrant oil paintings. He and his wife, Laura, run his art gallery out of a historic building in the French capitol, Marigot.

If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you may have read about the day that Roland painted Stacey. Today, it was my day to sit for the master. Last time I visited the gallery, I mentioned that my husband, Ben, is from Africa and I have a few sets of clothing from Tanzania. He asked me to wear one for a painting, so I chose a colorful dress and head scarf that Ben gave me for our first Christmas and a cowrie shell necklace from Ben’s mom. The outfit not only reflects the Johnson family heritage, it also represents the island’s African influences and the narrative of many of Saint Martin’s citizens.

The painting took about four hours. As he worked, Roland told Stacey and I about the island’s history. He knows more about Saint Martin history than almost anyone! If you’re around Marigot, French Saint Martin on a Thursday, stop into his gallery to watch him paint a portrait and ask about the island’s past. Roland is a wealth of fascinating information on the Caribbean.

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Don’t you love how the painting turned out? I can’t wait to see it displayed in the gallery! What a wonderful experience.

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You can see more of Sir Roland Richardson’s work at his website here.

Photo Credits: Stacey Culpepper

Two Girls Downtown

Sand and sun, tanzanite, johnny cakes and chapels. Downtown Philipsburg is as eclectic and international as you could ask. Philipsburg is the capitol of Dutch Sint Maarten, and its narrow streets hold a mixture of history and modern trends. Alyssa and I took an afternoon to explore this mix of past and present.

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Visitors to Sint Maarten often arrive by cruise ship. The first thing these tourists see is the Boardwalk, which is a sunny strip of sidewalk that borders Great Bay beach.

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Philipsburg was founded by a Dutch Navy captain named John Philips in 1763. Until the 1950’s, this area was relatively quiet, as far as tourism goes. At one time, it contained Sint Maarten’s only port, and saw just a handful of large boats each year. Later, as the island’s tourist industry expanded after World War II, bigger piers were built to accommodate cruise ships. It became one of the Caribbean’s busiest ports, and today thousands of vacationers stream off the gangways each week.

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The Saint Martin of Tours Catholic Church is located on the Boardwalk. The St. Martin of Tours Parish is celebrating its 175th anniversary this year! The church was named after the island’s own namesake, a 4th-century bishop whose feast day is November 11. When Christopher Columbus “discovered” Saint Martin on November 11, 1493, he named the island in honor of Saint Martin’s feat day. Naturally, the island’s  first Catholic church was also named after this saint.

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The Boardwalk holds many lovely surprises, like the reggae band we found and the little open-air restaurant where we stopped for icees.

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Iced drinks are the perfect refreshment on a warm February day in the tropics.

 

 

For many, the Sint Maarten experience stops here, on the edge of the aquamarine bay with a beach chair and a bottle of Heineken. But there’s so much more to downtown than just the boardwalk! Take a quick stroll down any one of the alleys leading to Front Street, and you’ll enter a whole new layer of the tourism district.

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Front Street is a wonderful place to shop if you’re not into paying sales tax and don’t mind dropping a good bit of cash of fancy goods. It’s also a good place to get a snack from local street cart vendors.

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Apparently, it’s also the perfect street for walking your pet iguana.

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The man who photobombed this picture was a pretty good salesperson. He caught our attention by jumping into this shot, and then managed to convince us to sample his wares. The face cream was nice, but neither of us were willing to pay $120 for it!

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The Sint Maarten courthouse is the most recognizable building on the island. It’s even featured on the country’s flag. It was built in 1793 and still serves as the courthouse.

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Front street is also home to a beautiful Methodist church. We stopped to take a look inside. This building was the first Methodist church on Sint Maarten. It was built in 1851, about century after the Methodist denomination was introduced to the West Indies by Nathaniel Green.

Beyond Front Street is (you guessed it) Back Street. There are many paths to Back Street, but my favorite is Old Street.

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Old Street isn’t really that much different from the rest of downtown, but it does have a certain charm about it. Maybe it’s the 50’s-era car permanently parked in the middle of the walkway, maybe it’s the big blue castle at the end of the street.

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My personal favorite place on Old Street is the art gallery. The family who owns it came here recently from Holland. The wife creates beautiful and unique art for her gallery and teaches art classes on the weekends. Her husband has a windsurf business at Le Galion Bay. His most recent work of art, he told me, is a crayon drawing of Winnie-The-Pooh.

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Back Street is for the locals. The prices here are significantly lower than those on Front Street, and you can find anything from Nike shoes to a washing machine in the stores. The look of Back Street is unique– huge stores sell appliances, old Dutch homes buzz with modern life, and local art covers the walls.

Cannegieter Street, or Third Street, as some people call it, comes next. Every day that a cruise ship docks at the port, Philipsburg Market is open. Dozens of vendors sell their goods along both sides of the road. Shoppers can buy all kinds of islandy things here. The crocheted cover-ups are my favorite.

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Pondfill Road comes last. This street is part of the main road that travels the perimeter of the island. Pondfill also runs along the Salt Pond, where slaves used to harvest salt for their masters. Salt slavery on Sint Maarten began in the 17th century. In 1848, slavery was abolished on the French side of the island, and subsequently Dutch slaves began to escape across the border for their freedom. Because of this, Dutch slave masters released their slaves and began to pay them wages for their work in 1848, although it would be 15 years before emancipation was officially legislated. There is now a monument to the salt slaves in the center of the round-a-bout on Pondfill Road. I took the picture below on Sint Maarten’s Day, when paraders marched down Pondfill dressed as salt pickers.

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As you can see, downtown Philipsburg is more than a place to tan or shop. It is the center of Sint Maarten’s history. There is so much to do and see here, but you have to go beyond the tourist district to see it all! Wherever you are, get out and go exploring. Happy adventures!

 

Some photos courtesy of Alyssa Fry. Visit her blog at ColorMeYellow.net

 

 

 

The Haunting of La Belle Creole

They have forgotten us. We have faded from memory, like our flesh faded from our bones centuries ago. Yet we are here, invisible yet seeing, inaudible yet hearing, intangible yet sensing. Our spirits laugh with the lapping waves. We cry with the soaring birds. We moan with the wind. And we rage with the storms.

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There was a time when warm blood flowed through our bodies and warm flesh wrapped our bones. We walked on the shore then, cooling our feet in the ancient and everlasting waters. We ran under the tropical sun from shore to shore. Our children dove from the cliffs—how different they looked then!—into the clear waters of the reef. We tasted the sweet meat of the crab and danced in the firelight to the rhythm of the tide.

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Then they came—the strange men with strange words and strange clothing. They were harsh and resolute, and we hated them. They brought with them their vicious dogs, their explosives, and their lust. We grew weak, and our children died with raging heat in their bodies. Our women and men died with boils and scars. We wailed as our loved ones died, and we buried them with broken hearts near the sacred islet. I died, and I lay in the chill earth, away from the warm sunlight.

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They left, and came again, this time with their cannons and ships and slaves. They had already forgotten us, and they walked on our graves. I heard their footsteps on the ground above. They dragged their cannons over our graves and shattered our silence with their wars. They annihilated our peace with the crack of whips on human flesh.

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They left, and others took their place. Generations lived and died. We slept in peace for a hundred years, with only the occasional wanderer to stir us.

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They came. Their machines roared, rattling our bones. They dug over our resting places, and built great structures over our graves. I felt the pressure of a great tower over my body. We groaned under the weight. Many people came from the whole world over, and trod on our sacred tombs. We moaned, but our cries were lost in the wind. Our bloodless beings saw the blush of the new bride. Our bleached bones saw the sun-kissed skin of the happy travelers. We remembered what we had been, and what we had lost. And we remembered that we were forgotten.

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Our moans whirled as wind around the whitewashed walls that had become a monument to our destruction. Our screams filled the air, and our souls ripped from our broken bones. We broke through the sandy earth, through the cracking concrete to the surface. We felt again the humidity of the air. We knew again the roar of the sea. Our tears of rage and loss poured from the heavens, and the rush of our agony ripped through the trees. We stirred the elements and raged from sea to sea, screaming our anger through the darkening sky. We saw them pour from buildings and take flight from our island home. We saw them take cover in every nook and cranny. We saw that they were afraid, and we took our vengeance.

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We tore through the quaint buildings, tearing with invisible claws at the rich furnishings of each room. The sound of shattering glass was lost in the volume of our screams. We threw the books, the paintings, the decorations out of the windows and doors. We destroyed their world, just as they had destroyed ours.

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We satiated our lust for vengeance, and we regarded the havoc we had wreaked. Shredded curtains floated in the gentle breeze. Glass and splinters carpeted the earth. Not a living soul was to be seen.

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Only dead ones.

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We could not return to our graves. We could not penetrate the earth again. So we haunted the empty rooms, weeping in silence. We could not return the decayed flesh to our bodies or our island home to our children. We could only swear to defend the site of our sacred graves to the end of time.

 

These eerie photos are were taken in the ruins of La Belle Creole, a resort that was deserted after it was heavily damaged when Saint Martin was struck by Hurricane Luis in 1995. Local superstition states that the resort was built over an ancient Arawak grave site, which is why no modern building projects have been successful on the peninsula. Of course, I don’t believe in haunting spirits or jinxes, but I found the legend interesting and the ruins creepy enough to warrant a paranormal telling of La Belle Creole’s story.